


crack your heart for me

by sebfish



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 21:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13510320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebfish/pseuds/sebfish
Summary: It feels like cracking his chest open to say something so he doesn’t, just smiles back at Kenny when Kenny leans against him and laughs at him.He was happy, he thought, in that bright month of summer before the draft when he could pretend for a little while that it was just him and Kenny and nothing else, but it didn’t last.





	crack your heart for me

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't quite the Jack POV Pimbits fic that I set out to write, but I think it worked out pretty well anyway.
> 
> Check Please belongs to Ngozi, this fic is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine.

It feels like cracking his chest open to say something so he doesn’t, just smiles back at Kenny when Kenny leans against him and laughs at him.

Kenny is bright against him, half in his lap, and he’s drunk but Jack’s a little bit drunk too and that’s what gives him the courage to press his palm into the jut of a hipbone. He’s steadying him, ostensibly, as Kent wobbles from his perch, the warm heavy weight of him on Jack’s thigh.

They’re at a party, one of those things that the team always invites them to and Kenny always drags him along to, the kind of stereotypical high school party in someone’s basement with most of the team and what feels like half the high school crammed in all together. There’s music that’s just loud enough to drown out everything and cheap beer that’s being passed around in plastic cups.

It’s not his favorite thing, but that’s okay. He’s feeling loose from the beer and Kenny’s in his lap because they’re bros and nobody cares if it’s just bros and it’s not his favorite thing but it’s not bad, really.

They’re not just bros, actually, but nobody knows that here and even if it terrifies him sometimes it’s not like anyone suspects anything. He’ll make out with a hot girl at some point and then they’ll head home to Jack’s billet because his billet parents don’t care if Kenny stays over and then he’ll blow Kenny and maybe Kenny will return the favor and it’ll be fine, really.

 

 

 

“Zimms, c’mon,” Kenny says, his palm a warm weight between Jack’s shoulder blades. “Breathe with me, okay?” He exaggerates a deep breath and blows it out slowly and it’s dumb but it works and Jack tries to echo him, forces himself to slow down and breathe through the tight clutch of panic.

It’s a week before the draft and they’re at Jack’s house in Montreal, at home, because the draft is here in a week and Kenny’s been spending the summer with him.

He’s been able to ignore it, mostly, spending time working out and skating and hanging out with Kenny.

Even when he’s distracted it’s still there, though, hanging over him like the sword of Damocles.

He tries not to read the news but it’s hard to avoid, all the speculation about which one of them will go first. It’s a coin flip, some of them say, because they’re both fantastic and it’ll depend on who Vegas wants more.

Those are the nicer writers, who wax positively about both of them.

It’s worse when they talk about him and the Zimmermann legacy, hint that he’s not going to be able to be what his father was, hint that he’s been over-projected for the draft.

Seattle has the second pick and he would like it there, he thinks, and there’s a part of him that wants to go second because Kenny has always done better in the spotlight.

 

 

 

 _Zimms,_ the message says, _just let me know you’re okay._

It’s six weeks later when he finds it, feeling wrung out and lighter and on meds that make him feel like he’s on an even keel for once. He hasn’t had his phone since before the draft, between staying at the hospital and going to rehab and there’s more messages on his phone than he knows how to deal with.

He should message back, probably, but he knows his parents have been keeping Kent updated and Kent will be busy with training camp by now.

It’s unreal, a little bit, to be here in his parents’ big empty house instead of off somewhere trying to prove himself for a roster spot but it’s a relief too. He’s got options, the therapist keeps telling him, and nobody’s going to make him do hockey if he doesn’t want to.

That was the hardest part, maybe, harder than waking up disoriented and seeing how pale and small and scared his mother looked, how his dad held on to him like he never wanted to let him go.

 _I just want you happy_ , his dad had said, looking worn out and older than Jack ever remembered.

He was happy, he thought, in that bright month of summer before the draft when he could pretend for a little while that it was just him and Kenny and nothing else, but it didn’t last.

Kent’s busy, anyway, so it’s easier to just delete all his messages and start fresh.

 

 

 

“Hey Zimms,” Kent says, softly, his bright grin the same as ever but muted somehow, a soft secret thing that feels like it’s just for the two of them. He looks good like this, stronger and broader than he was when they were teenagers, years of professional hockey leaving their mark on him.

“Hey Kenny,” he says back, swallowing around the weight in his chest.

The party is noisy downstairs but it feels secret and hidden away, here, in Jack’s room. He doesn’t think anyone saw them going up, and if they did it’s hard to care. Plausible deniability and all that.

He doesn’t know who moves first but they’re both too close to each other and it’s too easy to bridge the distance and slot his mouth over Kent’s. Kent makes a noise and then he’s kissing back, hands grasping at Jack, and it’s everything he’d forgotten he was missing.

He’s got his hands over Kent before he can think too much about it and it’s simultaneously old and new: Kent’s thicker now, solid with muscle and warm under his hands, but the shape of him is the same underneath.

“Kenny,” he says desperately, and his chest hurts with how much he wants this.

Kent pulls away but not too far, smiling like he used to.

“So,” he says, “rumor has it you’ve been talking to a few teams.”

 

 

 

 _“Hey Zimms,”_ the voicemail starts, and Jack deletes it before he can listen to the rest of it. It’s petty, maybe, but it’s easier than the alternative. There’s a message from his mother after that, nothing major, and he makes a mental note to call her back later as he reaches his apartment door.

He digs his keys out and unlocks the door, opens it to the sweet smell of something baking.

Bitty’s in the kitchen, barefoot in a pair of Falconer’s sweatpants and one of Jack’s old Samwell shirts, and he turns to smile at Jack as he comes into the kitchen.

“Hey sweetpea!” Bitty says, and Jack crowds into him to steal a kiss.

“Hey Bits,” he says, feeling impossibly fond.

“How was practice?” Bitty turns back to the pie crust that’s sitting rolled out on the counter and deftly cuts out a circle. There’s a bowl of sugared fruit next to it and Jack steals a blueberry before going to the fridge.

“It was good,” he says, pulling out a protein shake and twisting off the cap. “Marty wants me to come over for dinner some time next week after we get back from the road trip.”

“Sounds fun,” Bitty says, pressing the crust into place. Jack steals another blueberry and leans against the counter, watching him. “I can make a pie for you to bring, if you want.”

“Maybe,” Jack says. “Did you find out why Dex was calling earlier?”

Bitty snorts. “If it’s not one thing it’s another with that boy.  He and Nursey are squabbling about something again, I don’t know what.”

Jack settles in to listen as Bitty launches into the story, and he loves him so much it hurts.

 

 

 

There’s a Cup in their locker room and Bitty is bright and shining next to him but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking off the first chance he gets, finding an empty trainer’s room and closing the door quietly behind him.

He dials the number by heart with shaking fingers as he sinks down onto the floor just inside the room, a little bit drunk but not drunk enough for this, and it’s only a little bit disappointing when the call rings through to voicemail.

“Hey Kenny,” he says, voice suddenly rough. “You’ve probably seen by now but I wanted to give you a heads up just in case, and, just, I’m sorry and I miss you so fucking much.”

His voice cracks a bit but he continues, pushing through before he loses his nerve. “We always said we’d be here one day, eh? And now I’m here and I miss you and I probably just made the biggest mistake of my life and just please don’t hate me for it, okay? Uh, anyway, bye.” He trails off awkwardly and hits the end button before he can second guess himself.  

He’s not sure how long it is before the door opens and Bitty comes in, but he’s mostly gotten his breathing under control by then.

“Hey sweetie,” Bitty says, soft and too knowing as he drops down next to Jack. “The party’s going on if you wanna go back, or we can say our goodbyes and head out.” His hand is warm on Jack’s shoulder and it’s easy enough to lean against him.

“Maybe in a bit,” Jack says, and he should be so fucking happy right now but his screen is dark and he wants to cry.

 

 

 

It’s a stupid decision that leads him here, sitting in a plane that’s starting its decent down into Las Vegas, the city below a bright splotch of color against the desert. Bitty didn’t think it was stupid, but then Bitty’s never been afraid of anything. Not when it mattered, anyway.

He’s been here for games, of course, but this is different and it feels like it’s going to crawl up through his throat and choke him.

The plane lands and he grabs his carryon, escapes the crowds and gets an Uber. It’s hot outside, the kind of thick suffocating heat he’s rarely had to deal with. He wouldn’t be here during the summer, usually, but Tater has it on good advice that some of the Aces are here already, close enough to training camp.

The driver lets him off in front of a large stucco house with a terracotta roof, looking unreal and washed out in the heat. There are a few scrubby desert plants that Jack can’t identify, and it’s weird like dreams are weird, when something’s just kinda off and you can’t quite tell where it’s wrong.

He walks the short distance to the door, suddenly wishing that he’d gotten a hotel so he could’ve left his carryon. He swallows down the knot in his chest and presses the doorbell.

There’s some noise from inside and then the door opens. Kent stands with the door half open, blinking at Jack.

“Jack?” he says unbelievingly. He looks good, thick and freckly from the summer, and Jack misses him so fucking much he hurts with it.

“Hey Kenny,” Jack says. It’s hard to meet Kent’s eyes, but he tries anyway. “Can we talk?”

Kent exhales sharply and steps back, gesturing Jack through the door.

“Okay,” he says, and leads the way in.

 

 

 

Kenny’s in his bed, fast asleep, and maybe Jack should get up but it’s warm here with Kenny tucked up next to him. There’s a crack of gold light across the bed through the curtains, illuminating everything.

The door creaks softly open, and Bitty tiptoes in. He sneaks in far enough to grab his phone off the bedside table, and leans in to drop a kiss on Jack’s hair.

“There’ll be pancakes in ten, sweetpea,” he whispers. Jack nods in response, then burrows back down into the coverlet. Bitty chuckles softly, looking fond, and sneaks back out, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Kenny stirs a little, cracks open an eye. “That Bitty?” he says drowsily, closing his eyes again. He’s tired from flying in late so he could spend his off day here before his team goes on their east coast road trip, but it’s worth it to have him here. Jack’s taking a maintenance day so he can stay home since he’s not playing until tomorrow either.

Kenny is asleep again, eyelashes a faint gold smudge on his cheeks. The planes of his face are sharper than they were when they were kids, but his freckles are the same and Jack loves him so much it hurts.

He settles into the warmth of Kenny in his bed, lets himself sink into the smell that’s distinctly Kenny along with whatever bath products he’s using this days. Kenny smells different now, but it’s a good kind of different.

He scoots over and pulls Kenny into him and falls asleep like that.  

 

 

 

Jack wakes up to the smell of coffee and chatter from the kitchen, and he’s not sure how late it is but the light hasn’t changed too much.

He stumbles his way into the kitchen to find Kent and Bitty tucked together at the table, looking at something on Kent’s phone. Bitty looks up as he comes in, a soft warm smile spreading across his face.

“Hey sweetpea,” he says. “We saved some pancakes for you on the stove.”

“Okay,” Jack says, and drops kisses on both of their heads as he passes by to get to the coffeemaker. He pours himself a cup of coffee, doctors it with milk and sugar, and then leans against the counter to sip at it as he watches Kenny and Bitty lean back over Kent’s phone again. There’s something about the way the two of them fit together so cozily that makes Jack feel at home.

The pancakes are the good kind that Bitty makes, thick and fluffy and dotted with blueberries, and there’s butter and maple syrup sitting out next to them. He’ll get some in a moment, but for now he’s content to stay there and sip his coffee.

Bitty has his ankle tucked around Kent’s and there’s something gentle about the way he looks at Kent, like he knows that Kent’s just a little bit fragile. It’s more than Jack could’ve ever hoped for and he loves them both so much that his heart aches with it.

Kent laughs, softly, and Bitty murmurs something in return, and then they’re both staring at him.

“What?” he says, hiding behind his coffee mug.

“Nothing,” Kent says with a grin that promises mischief, and then Bitty is nudging him and snorting and it’s honestly more than Jack could’ve ever hoped for, to be here with them, safe and alive and whole and happy.


End file.
